The Inquest
by dragongirl5k5
Summary: Reid is summoned for jury duty on a case about a child's murder, and is dismayed as he discovers things from the other side of the spectrum.


_A small, kind of dark, one shot that came to mind while reading a poem by William Henry Davies, called The Inquest. I do not own the poem, nor the name Ada Wright. Please enjoy, and reviews are most welcome(:_

_All italics are actual lines from the poem._

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* * *

__I took my oath I would inquire, _

_Without affection, hate, or wrath,_

_Into the death of Ada Wright-_

_So help me God! I took that oath._

Apparently, even the FBI got summoned for jury duty. Funny, how though he was a honorary genius and nearly age thrity, yet he had never sat on the wooden bench and judged justice through the actual system. JJ had said she could probably get him out of it, with special bureau privelages and all that.

Reid had thanked her, but declined the offer. Saying he had never done it before, and figured it was his time to serve. Truthfully, he assumed it would be a break from the tireless profiling. Their last case had hit home - _insane mother, serial killer father, and distrubed child caught up in the mix - _and honestly, he just needed a vacation.

The case was the people against Cynthia Wright, twenty-four-year-old mother accused of killing her daughter, Ada Wright. Ada was no more than a baby when she died. The prosecutor lay everything out for them to see, all evidence indicating the supposed truth. They even showed the little girl's body.

_When I went out to see the corpse,_

_The four months' babe that died so young,_

_I judged it seven pounds in weight,_

_And little more than one foot long._

Some had flinched upon the sight, it possibly being the first dead person they had ever seen. For Reid, it had not been an unusual sight whatsoever - almost mundane, which was laughable in a way.

_One eye, that had a yellow lid,_

_Was shut - so was the mouth, that smiled;_

_The left eye open, shining bright-_

_It seemed a knowing little child._

But for some reason, this time was different. The ever still corpse of the innocent baby girl was unnerving, and he could not look away. One eye was scarcely open.

_For as I looked at that one eye, _

_It seemed to laugh and say with glee:_

_'What caused my death you'll never know-_

_Perhaps my mother murdered me.'_

At that moment in time, Reid concluded that Cynthia Wright had in fact killed her own daughter. The epiphany left him with bitter disgust and a thirst for vengeance. But the woman's defense was claiming insanity, that she was not in her right mind when she did the deed. She gave teary-eyed confessions, wrought with heart-wrenching descriptions of lies, all lies. It took all his self-restrain to grit his teeth through the piteous stares she received and the retched plight she portrayed.

You see, Reid was a profiler. He knew a cold-blooded killer when he saw one. This woman was no better than the serial murderers he chased down and studied every day. She had no remorse, and no sense of regret. She killed Ada Wright, an innocent child with a whole life ahead of her, and felt no grief because of it.

"People of the court," her lawyer sang, "are you willing to put a young woman away, who by all truths, is not at fault here? Her actions were fed by corruption she could not control, an illegal urge that caused her such grief. Let us not lie, and say we are all victims of our urges, as humans ourselves. To punish her for such a sad, sad accident, would be unconstitutional and plain unjust."

"Cynthia's life was filled with tragedy, straying from even the conception of her child. Her baby was a bastard child, and poor Ada's father fled, knowing full well of the trouble this would bestow on them and their lives."

_When I went into court again,_

_To hear the mother's evidence-_

_It was a love-child, she explained._

_And smiled, for our intelligence._

"It's true," the mother wept, hanging her head in mock shame. "She was a lovechild, I didn't want her. Her father abandoned me so cruelly - stealing my car, and all the savings I had! But, I loved her, I loved her so much anyway!"

_'Now, Gentlemen of the Jury,' said_

_The coroner-'this woman's child_

_By misadventure met its death.'_

_'Aye, aye,' said we. The mother smiled._

"The jury finds the accused not-guilty by reason of temporary insanity," Juror number 5, one Rita Miller, declared. Cynthia smiled graciously towards her merciful judges. But, Reid saw the cruel twist curving behind her lips, straining to keep it's edges from being maniacally triumphant.

**'No, No, No!'** he wanted to scream. Alas, he bit his tongue, for he had been outvoted, 6 to 3. He wished she would be punished for her vicious deed. All he could see was young Ada's cherubic face, lifeless, staring at him. Her life would now never be redeemed, her murderer walking free.

Reid could not bear to hear the sentence, to listen as Cynthia Wright got off practically scotch free. Four months old, Ada had everything to live for. He is willing to bet she knew Cynthia was her mom, even as she killed her. What a painful memory to die with.

As she was led past him with hands free of chains, he glared at her, hostility a beating force in his eyes, body trembling from the force of his anger. His eyes which spat, _Liar. You killed her, your own daughter! You are lower than dirt._

She gave no reply, yet his message was clear. Without remorse, her smile grew, and looking directly at him her eyes conveyed, _Whatever do you mean? I didn't do anything._

Reid had seen from the other side of the spectrum, and did not enjoy what he saw. At least on a case, he could _do_ something, and make sure the person responsible was caught and punished for their actions. Never before had he felt so helpless against the verdict. The fact that the court system could blatantly leave the so-called line between right and wrong so greatly skewed would haunt him for many moons to come.

"Reid, what's wrong?" Morgan would ask, when he returned to work tomorrow, large bags under his eyes and slow-acting demons rumbling in his head.

And he would smile, as deceptive as Cynthia Wright, and say, "Nothing. Tired is all." Strange, he never fancied himself a liar as well.

"Glad to be back?" Hotch would joke. "I suppose not, after all, you had a little time off there."

"Actually, I am happy to be back," he said honestly. _And you will never have any idea how true that is._

The system had failed. Retribution was long in coming.

_And I could see that child's one eye_

_Which seemed to laugh, and say with glee:_

_'What caused my death you'll never know-_

_Perhaps my mother murdered me.'_


End file.
